


Olivia's Folly

by littlehoneybee20



Category: SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21650335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehoneybee20/pseuds/littlehoneybee20





	Olivia's Folly

Fools. Their grief-stricken wails for help faded into the distance. Suppressing a sly grin, I silently surfaced and wrung out my hair as I sauntered along the reed-covered path towards the road.

Moments later, a Peugeot touring coupe with a magnificent torpedo body purred into sight. But red? Was he _trying_ be noticed?

“Olivia, I presume?” he intoned with a raised eyebrow, clearly amused with himself. “Open the boot, genius,” was my reply.

At least he had remembered my trunk. A grove of pine trees provided privacy as I slipped into freshly pressed trousers, a silk blouse, and oxford heels. The plan had gone like clockwork.

Everyone would assume my dead body had simply floated away…and then wouldn’t he rue the day he declared our love had died. Oh yes Harry dear, we’ll see who dies now.

Sinking low into the soft leather passenger seat, I allowed myself a satisfied smile as the Peugeot sped off.

The road to Paris was long but my driving companion Nick—an English jockey converted Francophile with a fascination for the bourgeois bohemian life—had brought caviar omelets and fresh asparagus with hollandaise, making the drive immensely more pleasurable. Plus he was easy on the eyes, made even easier by his well-tailored pinstriped suit. He fancied himself a witty conversationalist, which was the last thing I needed, but between the blasting jazz, the caviar, and a carafe of chilled Brouilly, he rather grew on me. Indeed, he might even be useful.

Some go to Paris to have a good time. Some go for the theater or the nightlife, to catch a glimpse of the motion-picture stars, the painters, the writers, the fashion. (The fashion! But please, no dirndls.) Nick, on the other hand, had come to Paris for the parties. Arriving just after the Armistice, he was motivated by the falling franc, but stayed for the easy sex and free-flowing booze. And me? My plan was to spend a few incognito weeks crashing parties with the beau monde at Scott and Zelda’s place, or perhaps slip into stylish soirees on Rue Saint-Guillaume with Cole Porter crooning to the crowd, or recline on black velvet chairs in dimly lit bars consuming shocking amounts of Pisco Sours, and recover every morning with Bloody Marys and Mimosas on the bustling sidewalk cafes of St.Germain with views of the Eiffel Tower soaring like a diamond necklace in the distance. That should buy me enough time.

They say that Paris, the City of Light, is the perfect place to fall in love, but I say it’s the perfect city to plot revenge. And that’s why I came to Paris.

* * *

It was a warm summer evening, perfect for meandering the crooked streets of the charming _Rive Gauche_ neighborhood with Nick as my “walker.” Peering into boutique windows, there were gem-clad broaches, bronze shoes (to be worn only with pale stockings), silver brocade vests fitted with mirrors, and the glitzy crocodile card cases. Reaching an elegant hunting shop, something caught my eye: the gleaming hilt of an aboriginal knife. An idea – indeed, an excellent idea– took seed in my imagination. Slipping out a small black notebook from my beaded clutch, I added a single word to my obsessive catalog of vengeance, while noticing the voices in head were talking again.

In the meantime, Nick darling was pacing the streets in desperate need of a drink, so I led him towards the green-trimmed awning of a local joint where a bevy of expats clustered on the terrace instantly engulfed him. That’s fine. My mind was whirling furiously anyhow, so I made my way inside to a tight rear booth and summoned the crisp-collared waiter for oysters and Chablis. The steady background beat of clinking silverware against plates, and cups against saucers ricocheted throughout the brasserie, fueling my frenzied thoughts. That is, at least, until

the waiter arrived to unceremoniously plunk the platter of oysters roughly on the table, breaking the spell. Incompetent fool. Then with a laughable flourish, he removed a small vial from his apron and splashed a vile-looking yellow substance over my plate.

“For goodness sake, garçon, you’re fouling my oysters.”

“ _C’est citron. C’est bon!_ ” he insisted with more splashes and flourishes.

A contemptuous wave of my hand dismissed him, which in retrospect might have appeared overly regal, but he was a dullard and I had more important matters to focus on. That vial, for one thing. It reminded me of something, but what….?

My gold Cartier pen—a gift from the faithless Harry that must have set him back oodles— glimmered in the candlelight as I jotted a few more thoughts into my notebook. The irony of using Harry’s pricey pen for this purpose was intoxicating and I reclined in the silky extravagance of the claret-cushioned banquette, ignoring the nearby canoodling couple’s tête-à- têtes (happy couples made me nauseous). Permitting myself only small sips of Chablis to keep a clear head, I was planning to stay for as long as the velvet-jacketed waiter would allow, but a cacophony of boisterous carousers exploded into the room. Nick and his expat pals appeared arm-in-arm at my banquette and launched into inebriated stories of jam sessions in Le

Chabanais, brawls in La Coupole, nights smoking hashish in Arab cafes, and dirty stories so dirty they belong in workingmen’s cafes, and certainly not in this story.

By now, you’re piecing together this puzzle. And you may be wondering how I would execute this plan of mine? Nick, of course. It would give him the story of all stories to add to his repertoire of drunken tales.

Yes, everyone needs a Nick. A gun for hire.

* * *

We arrived at his place at an ungodly hour. The flat was in a glorious Haussmannian edifice where lover’s fights echoed from the sidewalk into the expansively tiled inner courtyard and open bedroom windows. Nick’s place, guarded by two eleven-foot cream-colored French doors, was pristine with near-barren rooms and textured minimalist rugs—the least family-friendly residence on earth—but livability was never the point and who said anything about wanting children. Zigzagging through each room, there was a Miró in the foyer, a Duchamp in the kitchen, a Rodin in the tub room, and two Eileen Gray Bibendum chairs in the living room. All gifts, I presumed. You can see why it’s worth keeping Nick around.

Early morning light filtered through the black iron balustrade, washing the walls in a warm orange glow as we sat at the cantilevered marble kitchen table and I laid out my plan. First he’d head to the hunting shop and then to find his pal Pierre de Décès, Nick’s usual source for party cocaine who also moonlights in various other illicit substances. And finally, he’d make a jaunt back to the small kingdom. And this time, not in a conspicuous red coupe.

Nick was game—he’s always game—but especially at the thought of the Caldwell watch I promised him when it was done.

By midday, he was out the door, returning a few hours later with two small wrapped parcels and a Caldwell watch on his wrist. Apparently, he couldn’t wait. He found me in the living room, wrapped in a cashmere shawl with two snifters of brandy in hand.

“Cheers darling,” I tipped my glass and he asked me if I would be “okay.” How quaint. He clearly doesn’t know me but I’m willing to play this game, to be that girl. I answered with a

shrug and a “Bof” (that is to say, who knows). But the voices in my head were absolutely giddy. I would definitely be “okay.”

My letter with instructions to my darling brother was written and sealed, and I handed it to Nick. Leon would avenge my honor and then we’d leave Europe to begin new lives. He had always

been smitten with motion pictures so we’d move to Hollywood where everyone pretends to be someone else anyhow, so we’d fit in beautifully.

Turning back to Nick, I repeated my warning. “Guard the letter with your life and place it directly into Leon’s hands as soon as you arrive.” Nick folded it deeply into the inner pocket of his motorcycle jacket, and with a peck on the cheek, he was off to do my dirty work.

The thunder of his BMW-R32 motorcycle roaring down the street reverberated up the winding granite staircase and into the living room where I sat with a smug smile.

* * *

Five days and copious snifters of brandy later, I was on the lookout for Nick’s return. His flat had a telephone, of course, but since we’d need to go through the central operator to place an international call, we had decided that telephoning was too risky. I consumed substantial amounts of brandy and waited.

At daybreak, the sound of boots shuffling up the granite staircase pierced the somber silence of the morning and I dashed out of bed in a flash with a bottle of champagne in hand. The door swung open and Nick stepped in looking ragged, but he had ridden all through the night so ragged was to be expected.

“Harry is dead,” he uttered flatly.

The champagne cork squeaked off the bottle and soared across the room. “But so is Leon.”

The bottle slipped to the floor and shards of broken glass embedded in my legs as I fell with it, searching Nick’s face to understand words that made no sense.

“In the process of fighting Harry, Leon scratched himself—just a superficial scratch really—but the African beetle poison was so powerful that even a single drop in his bloodstream killed him too. Oliva, I’m so sorry.”

Nick continued saying the right things but the words were floating in the air… _You should rest… Leon would want you to be strong… Harry got what was coming to him…but this is great news… we should celebrate... I’ll make Bloodies after my shower...._

The voices in my head drowned out Nick’s words, shrieking that Leon was dead and it was my fault, my idea, my plan, my poison. First I had lost Harry’s love, along with my shot at the crown, life at court, and now my beloved brother, Leon.

Nick was still in the shower and the sound of the water splashing on the marble stall became the hypnotic, appeasing soundtrack of my despair. It spoke to me and I knew what I had to do.

There was absolutely nothing left.

The streets of Paris were empty in the gray dawn light and the pavement was cool on the soles of my feet. Only the _boulangerie_ was open this early but the baker didn’t seem to notice as I passed by in my dressing gown. The Seine was a short block away but the steps to the quayside were jagged and overgrown with weeds and goldenrod that I clung to for support.

The black river water welcomed me back, whispering sweet mockeries in my ear. Still clutching the wildflowers and kneeling on the edge, I eased myself into the river and let the current take me. I had come full circle.

-&-

The red Peugeot touring coupe with a magnificent torpedo body shot down the road like a bullet. Nick was at the wheel letting loose a string of expletives suitable only for the ears of longshoremen.

“Goddamnit. Doesn’t anybody listen anymore? Don’t f-ing the words, ‘Isn’t that great news’ or ‘We should celebrate’ mean anything?’ Not even, ‘ _You’re next in line for the throne?_ ’”

Sinking low into the soft leather passenger seat, a bemused voice said, “Guess I missed that part.”

“Good thing the baker pointed me in the right direction to fish you out of the goddamn river, you goddamn fool.”

“Don’t you mean your goddamn Royal Highness?”

“Whatever. And by the way, the watch wasn’t waterproof so you owe me another.”

“Of course, dear Nick. Say, darling, did you happen to bring any of those caviar omelets for the drive?”

And off they sped on the long road away from Paris.


End file.
